


Happy Hunting

by followsrabbit



Category: Once Upon A Time - Fandom
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-16
Updated: 2014-05-22
Packaged: 2018-01-25 00:25:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1622366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/followsrabbit/pseuds/followsrabbit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Princess Emma encounters the infamous Captain Hook in a tavern — deceit ensues.<br/>(An entirely AU version of Emma's interaction with past!Hook in 3x21, in which Regina never cast the curse and Hook spent several more years in Neverland before returning to the Enchanted Forest.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Her feet are already weary when the muddy curve of a boot knocks against her instep. Emma winces, opens her mouth to protest, and promptly shuts it.

The last thing she needs at the moment is to cause a scene.

 An ache follows the contact, settling itself into her soles and gnawing its way to her toes, stirring at muscles already sore from a day spent traveling.  A slurred apology drifts with the slurred-step man out the tavern door, leaving Emma to roll her eyes at his shadow.  Even hunched over in the corner-most table of the tavern, it seems impossible to stay out of the way.

Yet better here than out in the open.

Nursing a glass of ale, Emma keeps her face swallowed by a billowing hood and her eyes scanning the dense clamor of the tavern.

 _Enjoy it, Princess._ She’d wanted this, once, after all.

She takes another sip, checking herself after a short swallow. This isn’t one of her parents’ balls, she’s not drinking champaign, and it matters a hell of a lot more than it ever used to if she slips into carelessness. 

Her fingers knot.  Raucous laughter, roaring pirates, giggling bar wenches – she’d always assumed that, if she ever managed to get so far away from the confines of the palace, it would come as a relief to rules and composure.

Granted, she’d never assumed her escape would come as an eviction; that guards would pursue her with weapons ready rather than amused instruction to see her home. That it would be the Evil Queen’s guards rather than her parents’. She certainly hadn’t foreseen that the Evil Queen would ever succeed in regaining enough power to lock her parents away among the darkness of her dungeons. 

That her parents would manage to make sure she escaped that fate, however… A heavy gulp of ale sinks down her throat before caution can thwart it.  That isn’t surprising at all.  Self-sacrifice is practically in their family motto.

Her glass shudders down against the stains of the tabletop. 

Not the time.

A dark figure clomps over the threshold, carrying his ridiculous helmet in his hands.  It doesn’t matter; the black armor distinguishes him easily enough.  Tension slinks through Emma’s body, from shoulders to kneecaps.  One of the Queen’s knights.

 _Really_ not the time.

*

 _Breathe.  Just breathe._ Yet even when he sits down to a formidable mug of ale, Emma doesn’t dare move.  Particularly not when a darted look through a grime-clad window reveals several of his friends resting out in the village.  Stolen peasant garb might allow her to blend in, but it’s hardly a true disguise.  And solitude might be a comfort at the moment, but a lone woman brooding to herself among an otherwise uproarious crowd does stand out.

Her eyes flicker to the women perched about the tavern – their curved lips and loosened corsets.  They drape themselves on pot-bellied laps, and no one thinks to wonder when they take their company to more secluded corners.

Emma’s eyes narrow.  She could stay here, and hope the black knight doesn’t think to notice her.  She could slip away and hope his friends aren’t any sharper.  She slants a glance to a table of gambling men.  Or perhaps…

Before she can stop herself, her fingers have begun working at the laces of her corset.  In an even quicker motion, she pulls down her hood.  Standing poses a more difficult task than anticipated, but she manages.  As for remembering to saunter past the black knight without a trace of trepidation – well, the adrenaline takes care of that, just as it propels her to lean across the nearest tabletop with a wide grin.

Her smile nearly falters when her eyes fall upon the man sitting before her.  She stretches her lips further.  It’s not the time to dwell on the past, and it’s certainly not the time to lose herself over a pretty face.

“What are you boys playing?”

His gaze locks upon her, and her grin grows genuine.  She has him.

*

The pirate certainly isn’t pot-bellied, she’ll give him that.  His red vest hints at a physique at least as fine as any of her family’s knights, and his face – is it even possible for eyes to be _that_ blue — leaves no question as to why she’s earned herself a chorus of envious glares since stealing his company.

A throaty laugh rises from her chest as he leans closer to her. 

More importantly, he’s both drunk and attracted enough to her that he’ll likely make a scene should the black knight to the left of them – still there, damn him – finally take note of her.

For the mean time, however…

Her fingers curl around the hook glinting from his wrist in place of a hand, stroking the silver in a slow dance.  She’s always longed for an adventure on par with the ones of her parents’ past.  She’d just never imagined it would involve one of the realm’s most infamous pirates.

Captain freaking Hook.  And he’s  _smirking_ at her.  “It’s not many a woman who shows such appreciation for that particular appendage, love.”  Hook’s eyes dart down, the corners of his mouth stretching.  “Another, however…”

She flashes him another grin, hovering closer until barely a breath’s space remains between them.  “Maybe I’m not many a woman.”

“That,” laughter grounds against his voice as he pours her another glass of rum, splashing a bit across the table in a spasm.  “I don’t doubt.”

“Can’t blame a girl for being curious.”  She lifts her shoulders, fingers still curled around his hook. “You hear so many stories…”

That earns her a raised eyebrow and a complete diminishment of personal space.  His breath reeks of rum and his words of its influence.  Enough rum that he should have grown repulsive by now.  (Her heart hammers as he comes closer, and she doesn’t bother pretending he’s become any such thing). “So you know who I am, and you haven’t even told me your name.”

 _Not going to happen, buddy._   Even before her name carried a death sentence, she can’t imagine she’d have thrown it about in a tavern to a pirate’s ears.  She pours him another drink, lest he notice her hesitation.  “What fun would that be?”

Luckily, he seems to like that answer.  “We’re just two ships passing in the night then?”

She bites back a snort in favor of a coy smile.  Figures a pirate would opt for a nautical metaphor.  “Passing closely, I hope.”

Not for the first time, his gaze racks her body.  He drinks in her face as though helping himself to another long gulp of rum, and Emma’s legs lock. 

Propositioning a pirate.  Even in a ruse, _especially in a ruse_ — it’s idiotic. 

“Speaking of ships, what do you say we leave this place, and I show you mine?”

It’s exhilarating. 

An evasion leaps to her tongue, then falters.  The Queen’s men are still here, and who can tell if they’d recognize her if the pirate abandons her for an easier conquest, never mind if she tried to leave on her own.  If she were nothing more than a bar wench leaving a tavern with a pirate, however…  A gulp claims her throat.  Well, that wouldn’t be remarkable at all.  Unless she wants to wait the knights out – and God knows how long that will take – there’s no better time or manner presenting itself for an escape.

It’s stupid.  It’s her best bet.

“Lead the way, captain.”

*

She wants to dance.  She wants to sing.  The knights granted them nary a glance on their way out, not bothering to look past her makeshift shield of a billowing hood and the protection of the pirate’s form. (Nor does said pirate seem to hold any qualms whatsoever over allowing her to cling to his side.)

Now all that’s left is to maneuver her escape from him.

She tangles her feet together upon reaching the dock in a forced bout of clumsiness. “I think I should rest for a moment…”

Yet her attempt to stall only manages to plant her directly in his arms.  He hoists her up with a laugh.  “No need.  I’ve carried rum barrels heavier than you.”

Emma forces a smile.  What a gentleman.

She’s always thought gentlemen make things unnecessarily tedious.  A few moments later, she’s on her feet in his cabin, and near certain that pirate gentlemen are the worst sort of all. 

He hovers against her.  “Gods, you’re beautiful…”

He’s drunk.  He’s a pirate.  She’s nothing more than a conquest.  (And he’s the first person to ever call her beautiful without knowing her title; the first man to ever breathe the words like a prayer into her ear).

Hook brings his good hand up to brush her face.  “Not having second thoughts, are you?”

Pirate or not, he might be gentleman to let her go if she says yes.

Emma catches his lips with hers.

Or he might not be.

Rum clangs against her tongue as their lips grope one another’s.  His hand moves greedily from her face down the span of her body, stopping to curve around her hip.  He plunders her mouth, and it takes her a moment to realize she’s taken to plundering his in turn. 

It’s not her first kiss.  She’s a princess, not a fairy, and nearly nineteen-years-old at that.  She’s known sloppy attempts with childhood friends. She’s had chaste pecks from neighboring princes.

This is a different breed altogether.  He doesn’t rip his mouth from hers until they lose breath, and even then he brushes her lips with whispers of _how bloody gorgeous she is_ and other coarser comments no one else has ever dared murmur to her.  Emma swallows them all.

She’s stalling.  A moan (it takes her moment to register it as her own) fills the cabin.  Still stalling.  Emma tightens her fingers in his hair, allowing him to push her back into his desk.  She’s not sure how to tear herself away from stalling.

Skirt suddenly pushed up to her waist, she sobers enough to realize that she won’t have the chance to stall much longer if things progress further.

Emma kisses him harder, inhaling him, allowing him to inhale her.  He hardly notices when she slides a hand away from his head, down his arm, and to his desktop.  She gropes across its surface.

Papers…

His mouth moves to her jaw then trails down to her collarbone, molding his teeth to its curve. 

A moan breaks free from her lips.  More papers…

His hand moves down to stroke her leg, edging up further and further, and _she doesn’t want him to stop._

That, of course, is when her hand manages to curl around something heavier than paper.

In a jerk, Emma slams the makeshift weapon – a telescope, as it turns out – against his head. 

His hand falls from her thigh, his mouth from her chest, and his body down to the floor of his cabin in a thud.

She cringes.  That would be her queue to run.  Breathless and cold, Emma stares down at him for a moment. 

A choked laugh tempts its way from her lips.

A pirate’s cabin.  A pirate.  A loosened corset and a hiked-up skirt.

This is insanity.

Setting the telescope back down upon the desk, her eyes land on a leather pouch half-covered by an open map. And still all too exhilarating.

Feeling every bit the bandit her mother claims to have once been, Emma grabs the pouch and shoves her hand about its interior to discover a small collection of gold. Stealing from a pirate – perhaps she’ll tell her parents that story when she and their remaining allies finally manage to break them free from Regina’s castle.

Her gaze brushes down once more to the pirate sprawled about the floor (she only feels the smallest bit of guilt over hiding the pouch away into her cloak).

She’ll… abridge the story of how that theft came about.

Blush still warming her face, skin still cool from the loss of his against it, she runs.

*

Killian Jones wakes with a sharp pain piercing his head, the floor of his cabin pressed into his cheek, and a vision of blonde hair tangling through his mind.

He rolls over on the floor.  “Bloody hell…” His brow creases. He can usually hold his rum well enough to avoid passing out drunk before even managing to reach his sodding bed. 

Head throbbing, Hook foists a hand on his desk and pulls himself upright. The cabin spins around him in an aching blur — before settling on a figment of a blonde bar wench writhing against him.

Even the memory of her feels real, far too real to have been born out of a dream.

He collapses into his chair, drawing his fingers across the sore lines of his forehead.

Another memory follows – the shock of a sudden blow to his temple.  Jaw clenched, his eyes settle on the telescope lying askew on his desk.

Oh, yes, she was most definitely real.

A harsh laugh spills from his mouth in spite of himself.  “ _Bloody minx_.”  Bringing him back to his own cabin to take advantage of him – far more often his prerogative. Though at least he’s gentleman enough to give a lady exactly what he promises.

The sensation of soft skin and a desperate mouth ghosts around him.

That wench cheated him wholly.  A far more pleasant waking, he reckons he would have had, with her curled beside him.

Of course, that begs the question of what exactly the lass’s ulterior motives were if not to take advantages of his devilishly good looks…

It only takes a few moments more for him to take note of the pouch missing from his desk.

A sharp grin pierces his face.

(He tells himself that he only plans to chase her to retrieve the gold she stole from him; there couldn’t be any other reason for the exhilaration crawling through his muscles).

*

The forest curls around her when she lies down to rest the next night, all greenery, dirt, and distance from the cabin at which she’s supposed to meet any ally whose managed to evade the queen. 

If anyone else has managed to evade the queen.

Emma clenches her fists through the dirt, biting down hard on her lower lip.  She cried enough upon first fleeing the palace when her parents had entrusted her to a knight and begged her to run.

_“We’ll handle Regina.”_

She’d protested.  The hilt of a sword had found its way to her head.  She’d woken up miles away, with only that knight, his horse, and promises of a resistance to keep her company.

The knight had died for her.  His horse too.  She clings to the ghosts of his promises now as she once had to her baby blanket.  She holds them tight, lying still as a log among the grass – and, hours later, still very much awake.

Sometimes she wonders how her mother managed it for so long.  Not the roughness of banditry or even the constant moving, but the loss.  Emma’s jaw clenches.  She hasn’t lost her family just yet.  She just has to find them.  (She just has to stop feeling as though she’ll never see them again, as though they abandoned her, as though she’s an orphan.)

The stars glint down at her, their light tempting her further away from sleep.  A groan pulls past her lips. 

Plotting it is, then. 

She still has several days’ more journeying ahead of her.  Several days more of working her feet down to blisters and bones, of evading the Queen’s men, of wondering if Red or the dwarves or _anyone_ even managed to make it to the meeting place.

Of course, it could be several days less if she had a ship.

The pirate’s gold seems to grow heavier at her side.  (She won’t let herself think about his ship, nor the way she’d left him unconscious upon its floor – particularly not about anything that had happened in the moments prior.)

Using a pirate’s treasure to gain passage aboard another pirate’s ship – the corners of her lips slant. It’s safe to say she won’t encounter the Queen’s men aboard a pirate vessel nor riding through the waves around it.

Emma curls into herself, scrunching into a ball beneath the heavy blue cloth of her cloak.  Another tavern, a few nights at sea, and she’ll be that much closer to getting her home back.

*

“How much longer will we stay at port, Captain?”  His red hat pulled about his bulbous face, Smee’s voice grates against the wind bustling about the Jolly Roger.

“For as long as your captain wishes, Mister Smee.”  Stare hard, jaw clenched, and eyebrows raised, Hook edges closer to him.  “Will that be a problem?”

“No, Captain.  Of course not, Captain, I just—“

“ _Good_.  Such a sad fate, the punishment for insubordination, wouldn’t you say?”

Hook strides away from the Jolly Roger, leaving Smee sputtering in his wake. He waits until he’s out of sight to roll his eyes.  Useful man he’s proven, but an utter nuisance otherwise, and not the slightest bit worth his time at present.

A cold smirk kicks at his lips.  Not when he has a bar wench to find and a large pocket’s worth of gold to reclaim.

Hook saunters through the portside village, half-hoping to see his thief miraculously appear before him, and near certain she’ll do nothing of the certain.  She’s smart, he’ll grant her – smart enough to seduce him at the very least, so he’d wager she has enough wit to refrain from dallying around this village or its tavern any longer than need be.  No, he’ll have a far better chance trying the tavern of some neighboring village – assuming he picks the right one. 

Asking after her would pose the easiest means of pursuit – yet that would require surmounting the slight obstacle of her insistence on remaining an absolute sodding mystery.

Blonde hair.  Green eyes.  A bloody temptress. Fifty men could claim they’d encountered the very same woman, and point him in fifty different directions towards wenches with eyes the wrong shade, hair the wrong length, and nothing to do with his plundered pouch – with nothing whatsoever to interest him.

Perhaps asking after a blonde siren would prove more helpful.

Resting at his side, his hook glints in the sunlight.  A challenging pursuit, no doubt, but he’ll manage.  Theft and head ache aside, he nearly welcomes the diversion.  Centuries spent in Neverland, and still he’s no closer to avenging his Milah.  The Crocodile and his dagger remain as untouchable as ever.

His golden haired attacker resurfaces in his mind, knocking his tongue into the curve of his teeth. Oh, she’ll prove touchable indeed.

(He sees the poster then and becomes sure of it.)

*

“Seriously?” 

A groan deflates through Emma’s body.  _Damn it._

Her own face, remade in ink and paper, glares down at her from the far wall of the tavern.  _Wanted: Princess Emma._ She slumps in her seat. What she _wants_ is to pull at the image, tear at the words, crumple its charges into the sweat of her palm, and then tighten her fist around it once more for good measure.  All she can do is adjust the hood around her face.

Emma doesn’t bother to check the series of curses that follows from her lips. 

She knows it was only a matter of time until Regina got around to pasting her face throughout the kingdom; if anything, it’s a surprise that it took her so long to reach these seaside villages.  But that doesn’t mean it can’t irritate the hell out of her.

The desire to allow her head to spill down against the table bites at her.  So much for finding a captain to grant her safe passage here – there’s as good a chance she’ll find herself in chains upon arrival as there is that she’ll come upon a subject still sympathetic to her parents’ cause.

“And I here I thought princesses possessed more refined tongues.”

Emma whirls around to find a horribly familiar face looming a pixie’s stride from her.  _“Hook.”_

“Aye.”  He raises an eyebrow at her.  “Did you miss me?”

His hook latches itself to the seat across from hers, dragging it to her side.  “I—”  She should have cajoled him into drinking a few more glasses of rum the other night.  She should have pretended to have no idea who he was a minute ago. As things are, she clenches her jaw.  Too late to play at flirtation or cluelessness now.  “What do you want?”

He’s close enough that she can feel his breath on her ear and curse the lack of rum staining it.  The pirate would be a hell of a lot easier to talk out of recognizing her if he were drunk. “To start, I’d have my gold back.”

Careful to keep her gaze from wavering down to her cloak and the pouch currently burdening its folds, Emma twines her arms across her chest and keeps her voice level.  _Speak slowly, keep eye contact, don’t hesitate._ She was taught better than to show fear to princes and courtiers; she knows better than to grant it to a pirate captain.  “And how do I know you won’t turn me over to the queen as soon as you have it?”

“You don’t.”  He cocks his head.  “Yet I can assure you things won’t fare so pleasantly for you if you deny me property.”  Leaning even closer, he grins at her.  “Pirate, love.  We’re a possessive kind.”

Emma rolls her eyes.  “How about I return your gold, you let me walk out of here.”

His own stare catches them mid-roll.  “You return my gold, I don’t alert the entire bloody tavern as to the pretty price they’d fetch for your pretty head.”

She hates herself for surrendering, even as her hand jerks to throw the pouch at his chest.  “How did you even find me?”

Opening his pouch to examine the reclaimed loot, he chuckles.  “Funny tale, that.  As it turns out, a woman becomes far easier to track when you have a poster of her face to use as reference.”  Her glare smothers him, then the wanted poster he pushes across the table.  “Astounding, isn’t it?”

“And you went to all that trouble for a few pieces of gold.”

“As I told you, lass, pirates aren’t known for sharing.”

Yet he has his gold back safe in his grasp, and his eyes have only spent a moment on it.  They’re on her again – locked on her face as though there’s a map etched into its lines.  “And you, princess?”

She grits her response through her teeth.  “And I what?”   

“Do you have a bit of pirate in you?”  As if connected to his mouth by string, Hook’s eyebrows dart with his words.  “Most princesses don’t run about as bandits by night.”

“All you need to know about me is that I’m leaving.”

His hand darts out to curl around her wrist.  “Not quite yet.  Besides,” he tongue darts out against his lower lip, “I’d say I know a mite more about you than that.”

Emma works to fight off the blush encroaching her cheeks.  “ _What do you want?”_ The inflection barely makes its way onto the last word, leaving it more statement than question.

“Oh, a great many things, lass.”  His gaze rakes over her as it had only two nights prior; she’d relished it then, certain of his inebriation and her control.  Now she’s certain he’s doing it just to see her struggle against the blood rushing to her face. “But for the moment, I’d settle for hearing why exactly the Evil Queen cares so for your capture.  Steal from her as well?”

Emma wrenches her wrist from his grasp.  “No.  I never did anything to her.”

A snort follows without a beat.  “Forgive me for my skepticism, love.”

“It’s a…” Emma flounders her a way to explain the vendetta that she’s never fully understood herself,  “family matter.  And none of your business.”

“Ah.  A blood feud.  Now that I understand quite well.”

“Oh yeah?”  She clenches her arms together in a cinched braid.  “What do you know about it?”

His hook rises to her face in answer, brushing against the curve of her cheek.  “Still curious about how I lost my hand, princess?  Or was that merely a ploy as well.”

Emma’s eyes fix themselves to the hook in spite of themselves, hands absurdly tempted to curl around it once more as they had in another tavern, on another night.  “Well, I assumed a sword was involved.”

A sneer spreads across his face, eyes falling to the shadowed silver.  “It was taken from me.  And, rest assured, I exact vengeance on those that wrong me.”

“Is that a threat?”

He slants his sneer at her, allowing a mocking edge to pull at its corners.  “Relax, love.  You have your safety for now.  It’s the Dark One who need fear.”

“Rumpelstiltskin?”  She spits the name out without thought, only regretting it when his entire face tenses.

The response is immediate.  Just when she thought they couldn’t physically move any closer, he looms further against her.  A gulp sinks down Emma’s throat.  Any trace of the man she’d seduced with rum and coy smiles disappears in favor of a hard face and a darker glare.  “And what would a princess like you know of a monster like him?”

Emma pushes her shoulders back, pasting her shoulder blades to the back of her seat in a bid for space.  “My-my parents.  My parents imprisoned him.  He’s been in a cell my whole life.”  Her brow creases.  “How old _are_ you?”

If he hears the question, Hook gives no sign.  Eyes narrowed, fist clenched, his mouth sets itself in a fixed line.  “Tell me you know where the Dark One is.”  It’s a command, one hard and unrelenting enough that Emma almost wants to disagree just for the sake of seeing him falter.

She swallows that particular fit of stubbornness in favor of one that runs in a more productive vein.  “Tell me that you won’t turn me over to the queen.”

“Aye, you have my word, so long as you give me yours.”  The words rush from his mouth as though in sight of the finish line of a race.

Emma bites her lip.  “I do.”  Albeit not from experience – her father would have had a fit before ever allowing her to make that particular journey, nor had she ever entertained much interest in visiting an imprisoned madman.  “Satisfied?”

His entire face, from mouth to eyebrows, seems to lift.  It’s only his head that passes over nodding for a slight shake.  “Not just yet.”

*

“Let me get this straight.”

Disconcertingly smug for a man who looked as though he’d gone entirely mad barely a moment prior, Hook prompts her to continue.

“I help you get to Rumpelstiltskin, and you’ll hide from the queen.”

His responding shrug works a wrinkle into his leathers.  “Seems a fair trade.” 

“And how exactly are you planning to do that?”

“By taking you aboard my ship, of course.”  A grin stretches his lips, and she can’t tell whether it’s malicious, excited, or something else she’d rather not consider.  “I believe you’re acquainted with it.”

She chokes on a snort.  “And what?  I’ll just stay locked away in your cabin until the queen forgets about me?  Work as a deck hand?”

“Now there’s a vision.” 

Emma rolls her eyes.  “Seriously.”

“ _Seriously_ , lass, I’ll allow you passage on my ship to wherever it is you seek refuge.  I do assume you weren’t set on running forever without a destination.”

“No.”  Emma swallows her lower lip.  “I have a destination.”

Hook lifts himself to his feet.  “Lovely.  Now do we have ourselves a deal?”

Hesitation gnaws at her tongue despite the fact that this is what she’d sought a tavern for in the first place.  A pouch of gold in exchange for safe passage.  This not so different a transaction than the one she’d originally planned on forging.

She stares a moment too long at him – at the sleek triangle of skin exposed by the plunging neckline of his leathers, the coal smeared about his eyes, the impossible blue of his irises.  He was striking when she first met him, and it’s worse now that she knows the feel of him against her.

She wanted a stranger.

Raising an eyebrow yet again, he prods his hook down against her hair.  “If this arrangement doesn’t satisfy you, I assure you I can think of one far less generous.”  He cants his head.  “Do you know what I usually do to thieves?”

She doesn’t have a stranger.

_“Fine.”_

The corners of his mouth begin to rise.  She rushes to trample them.  “But don’t think I’m taking my eyes off you for a second.”

And suddenly his hand is in hers, and she’s on her feet, stumbling against his chest.  Emma glares at him for the sudden tug, even as he steadies her with a grin (that she utterly failed at squashing).  “I would despair if you did.”

*


	2. Part Two

_Bloody minx._

_Bloody temptress._

Beautiful  _girl._

A pouch of gold lying near forgotten in his satchel, Hook's attention fastens upon on the woman striding – albeit a tad reluctantly for his taste – beside him. His jaw shifts. No matter. He doesn't need her to enjoy his company, only for her pretty lips to point him towards the location of the Dark One.

The Crocodile imprisoned. The Crocodile without magic. Bloody hell, if he didn't know better, he'd think it a siren's song.

He lengthens his strides to keep pace with the wen— _princess_. The poster's claims would still seem a tad unbelievable for his tastes had he not seen the horror seep across her face at the moniker.

Well, he supposes she doesn't lack the looks for the title, if perhaps the manners.

If he'd known princesses could kiss like that, he'd have taken a deeper interest in them long ago. The ones he remembers from his years serving the crown – before the nightshade, before the hook – were pretty creatures of soft smiles, gentle manners, and simpering speech. The one he'd nearly had in his cabin, however… Emma keeps walking, shoulders set back and eyes trained forward. A different sort, altogether.

Yet there remains plenty of time for that conversation yet. He has another question at present.

"Care to tell me the precise location at which your parents entrapped the Dark One?"

A scoff shoots itself from her lips. "And leave you free to turn me over to the Queen's knights? Not happening."

His tongue ticks against his teeth. "I bear no allegiance to the Evil Queen."

"Oh, I believe that. But what about the reward for my neck?" If any fear over that reward lingers beneath the question, she blocks it from her face with a dry smirk (a less observant man might not notice the way her fingers clench tight around her cloak). "Don't try to tell me that you bear no allegiance to your gold."

No, at this point, that would sound a trifle absurd. Her jaw seems to tense in agreement. A new tactic, perhaps. "At least tell me then what exactly the Dark One did to your dear parents to inspire such retribution."

She shrugs (and still does not look at him). "Dangerous guy. You should know." Her gaze leaks down to the hook at his side for only a moment, before righting itself once more.

"Simply playing the benevolent rulers then? A nice story to be sure, but I know the Dark One. He's not a foe many would make without reason."

Her pace eases, and – finally – she fixes him with a stare. A tired stare, but still the eye contact she'd given him so freely in the tavern nevertheless. "Look, I don't know the specifics. He trapped one of their friends in a deal. She wanted out. They helped her."

"How kind." How simple. It's almost disappointing. "The queen, then. That vendetta must be a bit more… personal."

The lass takes her lower lip into her mouth, no doubt pondering just how much to reveal. His eyes trace the gesture; gods but he's met sirens that would fall into fits of envy at the sight of her. And he'd worried that particular effect would fade with sobriety.

"She blames my mother for ruining her life."

Now that  _is_ more interesting. "And did she?"

"My mother is a good person."

"Maybe so, love, but that's not what I asked."

Her glare is something to behold – a tempest of green raging at him, choking him, blinding him. "The queen ruined mine."

Hook pauses a moment, even after she speeds her steps once more, to look after her.

*

The pirate leaves Emma her share of distance throughout their trek back to his ship; it's only when they reach the harbor that his hand slides into place against the small of her back.

She jerks. "What," Emma hisses, "are you doing?"

Hook flashes a grin to the men busying about his ship. "Creating an impression," he murmurs to her under his breath. "For your benefit, might I add – assuming you'd prefer to keep my crew from thinking you more than a mere bar wench."

Smothering her flickered glare before his men can catch sight of it, Emma sinks against him, grating a giggle into his neck. His hand strokes at her back, her waist, then lower down, settling on her hip. "Right," she murmurs against his collarbone. "And this isn't for your benefit at all."

"Course not, lass." They make it down to the cabin without pause, a suggestive smirk from Hook apparently enough to answer any curious looks from his men. He releases her upon setting foot down in his quarters. "I'm always a gentleman. Not to mention," his hook brushes her hood from her face in a slow drawl of a motion, "I'm well acquainted with how dalliances with you tend to end."

Emma bristles a step away backwards. "About that. Here's the thing - one of the queen's knights came into the tavern, and I panicked, and you…"  
"And I what, love?" He raises an eyebrow, challenging, suggestive, and infuriating all at once.

Free from the confines of her hood, her hair beats at her shoulders as she shakes her head in a brief jerk. Her hand rises in a vague wave towards his temple. "Never mind. Your head's clearly fine." Irritatingly sharp, as a matter of fact.

She doesn't realize how close she's come to his cabin's table until the pirate takes another step towards her, pushing her against its edge. Her body goes stiff as a plank as his chest moves to hover against hers in an eerie mirror of the other night. "Too hardheaded for that, princess. Still, I can think of other ways of conveying your apologies if you're so inclined."

Squirming, she manages to pull herself to the other side of the table. The heat of him remains on her torso, sinking down to the depths of her stomach. "I thought you were done 'dallying' with me."

"Not quite." Casting his eyes downwards, he shakes his head with a chuckle. "It's underestimating you I've finished with."

Emma snorts. "Yeah. You've got your crew, your ship, and a sword. I don't think you have anything to worry about."

"Oh, and you're utterly defenseless."

Tilting her head, Emma shrugs. "Princess, remember?"

Hook lifts her to the surface of the table without a word.

"What the hell are you—"

Sliding a hand beneath her skirt, he lifts its hem past her knees – revealing a small dagger sheathed against her right thigh.

He grins. "Knew I didn't dream that."

Wrenching herself back to the floor, Emma rights her dress, once again fighting off a blush. "You can't be too careful."

"Too right. Which is why I think it best you relinquish the knife for the time being."

Her fingers clench a fist around her skirt. "That wasn't part of the deal." The walls of the cabin seem to rush around her in a chokehold. It's too small. It's too small, and he's too close, and it's  _all wrong_.

He advances on her once more, effectively erasing whatever space she's managed to wrangle. "Don't tell me you don't trust me."

A shot of laughter tempts her lips. An evil witch – who was supposed to be powerless, who was never supposed to be able to hurt her family again – strips her of her parents, her home, of  _everything_ , and she's just supposed, to, what? Agree to travel defenseless?

"Sorry, Captain. Not happening."

"Captain." The title not only stops his strides but sends a grin crawling across his face; the sort of look he'd given her when she'd been nothing more than a nameless bar wench swallowing shot by (discarded) shot of rum. "Oh, I like the sound of that."

She rolls her eyes, and makes a note to avoid referring to him as anything at all.

"As for the dagger, however, I'm afraid I still require it."

Emma's grip tightens a mocking edge into her voice. "Don't tell me you don't trust me."

"Forgive me for doubting the thief who left me gold-less and sprawled across my cabin floor only a few nights ago."

" _Please_ , I took a few coins, not a-"

"Nevertheless," he tramples her words, "I'm an honorable man. What do you say we amend the terms of our deal?"

Suspicion tightens her face. "How?"

"Give me your dagger by night, and I promise to return it to you by day. Not that you'll need it." His lips shrug. "My men know better than to pursue a woman I take as guest in my cabin."

Giving up on any attempt at personal space, Emma looms closer to him in turn. "And what about you?"

"I don't strike you as a man of my word?

Her chin lifts towards his. "Well, you are a pirate."

"Given your affinity for assault and thievery, I'm afraid that point has become rather void." Whether it's amusement or mockery that pulls at his mouth with the words, it fades in favor of gravity by the time he continues. "I have no interest in harming you at present, love. If it's my good will you find so questionable, perhaps you'll find common sense more convincing - seeing you hurt would prove rather counterproductive to my purposes. " The edge of his fingers rubs a short pattern against his chin. "The sooner I see you safely to land, the sooner I can resume my search for the Dark One."

She gropes for the lie in his words, turning each one over in her mind – and detects nothing. Emma's fingers slacken against her skirt; a moment later, they reach down to retrieve the dagger from beneath its cloth.

It's as good an offer as she's likely to receive from him, and, much as her muscles ache at relinquishing the weapon, they manage to push it into his grip.

His hand drops down to grab the dagger, the edge of his sleeve sliding up with the motion to reveal a flash of color. Tattoos are hardly foreign to her, particularly on the skin of a pirate (since leaving the palace, she's seen more arms covered with ink than she cares to count), yet somehow she had not thought of Hook possessing one. A red heart, however, glares from his skin, with a series of letters scripted between its lines.  _Milah._

Nor had she thought him the sort to cast a woman's name permanently upon his flesh.

Her brow almost creases, her attention almost shifts – but then he speaks, and irritation consumes her once more. "That's a good girl."

A glare cuts away the curiosity from her eyes.

*

His cabin floor isn't so much worse than any other place she's slept since fleeing her feather pillows and soft bedding. Hard and unyielding to be sure, but at least less likely to drive grass stains into her cloak or woodland beasts into her camp than the forest floor has proven.

Her gaze rises to Hook as he yanks his boots from his feet; the sight prods at her heartbeat far more forcefully than worry over monsters ever has.

She'd protested, of course, when he first told her she'd be sleeping in his quarters. Even now, lying still on her side, Emma's legs itch to run. The cabin seems to close around her a bit more with each moment she spends within its wall, its every inch a reminder of their… charade. (She ignores the first several descriptors that come to mind.) That charade is going to nail dreams into her head that will leave her glad to lack a heavy blanket.

It's empowering and awful all at once.

Hook had only raised an eyebrow at her reluctance.  _"Where would you rather rest, love? On deck? The brig? Or perhaps among my men?"_

Spreading her cloak around her like a blanket, Emma shifts against the wall. For all that she's inherited of her father's stubbornness, she isn't thick enough to argue against a fair point.

"Not even going to try to talk me out of my bed, lass? I know from rather recent experience that the floor yields scarce comfort."

Emma stares up at him from the ground as he discards another boot. "I didn't care too much about leaving you to sleep on it."

That could have earned her a slap. Reminding a pirate captain that she'd bested him – well, Emma has to admit she's made smarter moves. Hook only barks a laugh. "Aye. Luckily for you, I'm more of a gentleman."

Skepticism pushes her onto her elbows, before fixing her shoulder blades against the wall. "And you're just going to give up your bed out of the kindness of your heart." Emma crosses her arms with a wary look at the small bed in question.

"Oh, I never said that." She's beginning to suspect that his eyebrows may remain inebriated, constantly tempted towards flirtation and movement, even when his mind sobers. "But I assure you, I'd be all too happy to share."

Amusement and disbelief conspire to crease her brow. "Yeah, I'm fine where I am."

"Suit yourself, princess."

She nearly chokes on the spare pillow he sends smashing against her face.

*

That arrangement lasts exactly one night.

*

Emma wakes to the sight of a dagger hovering above her head.

It takes her a moment to register Hook's face behind it. "Your dagger, love, as promised."

She snatches for the hilt with a yawn and a glare. "You could have stabbed me."

His eyes roll away from her disheveled form. "I've been wielding knives since before your parents were conceived. If I stab you, I'll mean to."

Exhaustion outweighing any curiosity over his age - how old could he  _be_  - she grumbles, "Seriously? You couldn't have waited until I was awake?"

"You wake at sunrise." He's already moving towards the cabin's steps. "My ship, my rules."

She waits until the sound of his footsteps has begun pounding at the deck to lift herself to her feet.

Relief stretches through her consequent sigh. He's an arrogant bastard; arrogant enough that he'd have made some remark or other if any sign of what she'd been dreaming had managed to manifest through words spoken in sleep.

_Hook's hand tangled among her hair, his hook sloping her thigh, his mouth searing her neck. His hand venturing lower, far from her hair…_

Emma clenches her fingers around the dagger until they turn white.

The worst part is that she almost welcomessuch a dream in the stead of those that have taken up residency in her head lately. The ones that leave a scream on the tip of her tongue, and the images of the Queen's fingers curled around her mother's heart flickering behind her eyes. That leave her gasping as black knights beat at her father.

Those ones make her wonder if there will be anything at all to find once she finally reaches her parents.

She'd almost prefer to allow Hook free rein over her subconscious than face that question night after night. Maybe it's selfish of her. Emma pulls herself from the ground. Maybe she doesn't care.

*

"You can't expect me to sit down here all day."

By the time Hook sets foot back in his cabin, she's already paced the confines of his quarters several times over, examined the majority of the – surprisingly dull - papers strewn across his desk, and made an aborted attempted at practicing her knife throwing skills (it's a miracle she didn't break something).

Grabbing a flask from one of his desk drawers, he cocks his head at her. "Would you rather I put you to work swabbing the deck? There's one blood stain in particular that's been giving my men absolute hell."

Emma pulls her knees to her chest and glares at the pirate from her spot against the wall. "Look, the way I see it, we still have at least another day before I tell you where you can find the Dark One, and you leave me on land. I'll need fresh air or exercise or….  _something_ at some point."

"So eager to face a crew of pirates?"

She ignores his raised eyebrow. "Can't be worse than the Queen's knights."

"Ah, you're a tough lass." Pulling the flask from his mouth, he fits it easily among the folds of his leathers. "Regardless, in this particular case, it's not you I distrust. It's been quite a while since I've taken such a beauty aboard my ship. My men may not bear the trial of keeping their distance admirably." His eyebrows creep towards his forehead as he leans down to claim level ground with her eyes. She wonders if he notices his tongue dart against his lips; the amusement he seems to gain from her heavy gaze would suggest he does. "If it's activity you seek, I'm sure I can find way of distracting you."

Emma bites down hard on her tongue, the sharp pain scaring away any lingering remnants of memory or dream. "Not the kind of exercise I was talking about."

He pulls himself back to his feet. "Pity."

Emma briefly considers throwing her dagger after him as he climbs back up into the sunlight.

*

Hook leaves most of her meals resting on his cabin's table for Emma to claim when she pleases. Even by a wide margin, none of it qualifies as high quality fare – yet, at this point, even basic bread and butter seems a luxury so long as she doesn't have to procure it herself.

This one, he delivers with a bottle of rum. He sets it alongside the plate she'd expected before claiming a seat of his own.

She casts a skeptical look at the liquor. "What's the occasion?"

Either ignorant of her wariness or unconcerned (she assumes the latter), he pours her a shot of the amber liquid. "If my calculations are correct – which, I assure you, they are – you, milady, have only one more evening aboard my ship."

Emma sits down across from him before grabbing for a slice of cheese. The rum, she leaves be.

"So you're trying to get me drunk?"

Hook raises an eyebrow at her. "I've seen you drink, lass – not to mention of what you're capable after drinking. It will hardly ruin you to imbibe a shot of rum."

Her fingers still don't move towards the glass. "Shouldn't you be up there steering or supervising or …" she waves a hand about in search of the proper word, "whatever it is captain-ing entails?"

"So eager to be rid of me?"

She doesn't hurry about swallowing her slice of cheese before answering. "I'm eager to make sure we don't lose any time."

He grabs a piece of meat from her plate, dropping it past his lips. "My ship is the fastest in the realm. Rest assured, we'll make port soon enough."

"And then you can find the Dark One."

"And you your family."

Her teeth pause against a slice of meat; it slips down her throat whole. "I never said that."

"You didn't have to." Hook takes a long sip of his own rum. (She wavers between taking offense that he doesn't view her as a force formidable enough to require a fully sharpened mind, or simply giving it over to his arrogance.)

His voice lilts through her mind.  _It's underestimating you, I've finished with._

Arrogance, it is then.

"Going after the queen is suicide."

"Aye. And yet you still plan to attempt it."

Emma crosses her arms. "Don't tell me you're a seer."

"I'm flattered by your high opinion." A gruff laugh courses through his breath. "The truth of the matter, however, is that you, love, simply happen to be something of an open book."

Abandoning her food, her arms cross at her chest. "Am I?"

"Quite." He leans across the table until his chin is hovering over her plate. "Yet I can see your skepticism – what would you say to a small wager?"

"And what if I'd rather not gamble with a pirate?"

His arms settle on the table, and her shoulders rise at the realization that he has no intention of leaning back to his seat any time soon. "Then you'd be wise. Nevertheless, I doubt you'll be able to resist."

"Oh, really? And why's that?" Emma just barely manages to tack on an inflection.

"Because, if you win, I'll give you my bed for the night. Better, I'll give you the chance to relish the sight of me enjoying the discomfort of the floor." A mocking smile edges across his lips. "You left rather too early the other evening, I take it, to savor the full effect of the sight."

Emma's own arms untwine to extend upon the tabletop. "And if you win?"

Reaching for the bottle, he fills her untouched glass of rum a bit higher. "Then you agree to drink with me."

She expected worse.

When she nods a moment later, it's partly due to the bet, but mostly to the curiosity drawling its way through her thoughts – to the desire to see if he knows her as well as he thinks, to see him realize that he doesn't.

Either way, she doesn't flinch when his grin spreads at the gesture. "The queen took your parents."

"Please, you could have learned that from any local gossip-"

"I'm not finished, lass. The queen took your parents, but not you. You escaped."

Emma tilts her chin, pinning a dry  _obviously_ down against her tongue.

"You escaped because they made sure of it. Your sweet parents, who you've never been parted from your whole life, took measures of some sort to ensure your safety, and all you've thought of since is finding a way back to them, no matter if it means braving the very foe they so desired you to avoid. Anything to keep from abandoning them, the way you feel they abandoned you."

Emma could scoff, roll her eyes, and tell him he's out of a bed for the night. Yet her eyes grow a bit wider with his every word, her jaw a bit tighter.

Shrugging, he reads the question on her features, before she can force her lips apart to ask it. "I spent many a year in Neverland, home of the Lost Boys. They all share the same look in their eyes – the look you get when you've been left alone."

Without another word, Emma raises her glass to her lips and swallows a long swig of rum.

His grin isn't as triumphant as she'd expect. Hook's eyes remain upon her, as though there truly is some open book printed upon her skin that he can't help from continuing.

She allows the rim of her glass to linger against her lips in a bid to regain her footing. It's not the end of the world, drinking with him, so long as she keeps her sips short and measured from here. Much as it grates on her to grant Hook yet another flash of insight, he was right one more matter - she can handle one shot of rum.

"My turn." Her glass traces a ring upon his tabletop. "This vendetta against the Dark One – your  _blood feud_ … It's not about your hand."

"Isn't it?"

"It's like you said. I had my family taken from me and I-" She would do anything to make the Queen pay for it. Emma chases the words from her tongue with a few more drops of rum. "Whatever you have with Rumpelstiltskin, it's more personal than an injury."

He jerks his hook in front of her face. "Would you call this a mere injury, love?"

Emma continues, unperturbed by the point of his hook and the edge to his voice. "Fine. More personal than a maiming. He took someone from you."

 _Milah_ , she almost continues,  _the woman from the tattoo_. But she's already gotten the reaction she was looking for.

Even when he lowers his hook from her face, his fist remains clenched white around the table's edge, and his eyes narrowed into dagger points. "Quite perceptive, aren't you?"

"Like you said." she takes another sip of rum, a longer one this time, maybe because she wants the warmth, and maybe to distract herself from the intensity of his gaze. "Open book."

Eyes not wavering from hers, he fills her glass to the brim once more.

"Or perhaps you simply relate. Tell me, love, how would you see the queen suffer for stealing your family from you?"

Emma's fingers tie a tight knot around her glass, absorbing its every drop of sweat.

He shakes his head down at the table, a low chuckle slicing his voice. "And if you'd watched as she'd torn their hearts from their chests, and crushed them right in front of you. What would you do then?"

Even when she had company on her journey, her family's knight had only ever treated her as a victim – a charge to be comforted and coddled over what the Queen had done to her. No one has ever asked what she'd like to do to the Queen in turn. "I-I…" Not that she hasn't considered it.

"Would you be content to move on?" Fingers slowly unclenching from the table's edge, he leans once more across the table. "Forgive?" he spits her mother's mantra from his mouth like a spoiled bite of food.

She blames the rum for the burn taunting her throat. "I take it you aren't."

"Oh, I'll move on once I take my vengeance."

"Rumpelstilitskin has been locked up in a cell for almost twenty years. I think it's safe to say he's gotten a bit of a head start on that."

His fingers rise from the tabletop to play with a stray lock of her hair. "It's safe to say, princess, that he's in for far worse."

Emma leans back in her chair, pulling her hair back with her. His hand follows the motion briefly, before falling back to his glass.

*

Much as he had enjoyed the easy smiles and coy words she'd given him so freely at the tavern, he must admit the princess to be something more of an enigma without the mask.

He'd understood his plans for the bar wench. Straightforward, predictable, and only of any relevance for one night's span. She had been a simple creature then, all surface appeal and pretty words.

His eyes follow the princess's glass up to her pink lips. Although there's certainly something to be said of the surface as well. "If you had your Queen locked away and powerless, what precisely would you do to her?"

Her tongue darts out against her lips, reclaiming the drops of rum loitering on its curve. "It wouldn't be my decision. She'd be judged. Given a fair trial."

"And you'd be content to sit idly by, of course."

Face slanted towards her drink, she lifts her eyes to his. "Maybe I'd punch her in the face first."

It's not what he was looking for – a darker confession, a thirst for vengeance to match his own, would have better satisfied his expectations.

He releases a course laugh. A small, surprised smirk creases her mouth at the sound of his amusement.

An enigma, indeed. He's almost reluctant to see her depart – particularly when so much remains unresolved between them.

He's kissed many a wench since his centuries of celibacy in Neverland, yet none have left him as curious as the Princess Emma - though that could very well be no more than an outgrowth of how…  _unfulfilled_ they'll leave things.

Hook takes another long sip, allowing the rum on his tongue to recall the feeling of her lips on his – the heat of her breath pushing at his mouth.

Her tongue sprints across her lips again, setting the corners of his own mouth into a twist.  _And what thoughts might that particular taste drive back into_ your _mind, princess?_

His hook digs into his thigh, worrying the leather of his trousers and prodding an ache at the skin beneath. The princess will leave, he'll have the Dark One's location from her, and this fixation will fade.

(Or perhaps his mind will continue to grope for the taste of her mouth, the tug of her fingers against his hair – continue to envision her golden locks splayed out upon his bed, her legs twined around his waist.)

He doesn't lower his glass from his lips until the last of its rum has found his throat.

"Thirsty?" Cocking an eyebrow at the size of the sip, the princess teases the rim of her own cup against her mouth.

His hook eases against his leg. "Aye," he says, a smirk snaking through the word.

(He waits a moment before refilling his glass.)

* * *

Claustrophobia has never bothered her before, but the walls of this particular cabin seem to have a talent for sending her nerves spiraling with it.

Emma blames the pirate. If his quarters have a knack for crowding her, he has a prodigious skill for it, even when he's nowhere near her.

The movement of a chair screeches against the ground. Pulling himself to his feet and over to her side of the table, Hook extends a hand and a raised eyebrow towards her. "Tell me, how does a princess become so gifted at holding her liquor?"

Muscle memory compels her to accept his proffered hand. Common sense slackens her grip on it a second later.

Her palm readies itself to rise from his just as his fingertips make an absentminded game of kneading over her skin. Emma freezes at the sensation, her hand relaxing once more in his grip, if only for a moment.

Setting the matter of its source aside, the absentmindedness of the touch is familiar. Before everything, scarcely a day had passed that her mother hadn't taken her hand, that her father hadn't rested his wide palm against the back of her head, that she hadn't rolled her eyes in response. Her family's tactility had always seemed to fall in with idealism among the list of traits she did not inherit. Hook's thumb pads across her knuckle. Or she'd always thought it had.

Either way, she's in no shape to be picky. For weeks, she's felt nothing but the brush of the woods and the touch of its leaves, bark, and dirt on her skins. (Her mother might claim a connection to woodland creatures, but deer and doves stay a good distance from Emma, as skittish and wary of her as she tends to be of them.)

So she waits a moment before flinching away, allowing her lower lip to slip from her teeth's hold. "I was never very good at being a princess."

The words leave a sourness draped across her tongue. It's that taste that nudges at her mind, pierces through any rum-induced warmth, and urges her a step away from the pirate. Her hand falls to her side under the weight of his touch's shadow.

With a cock of his head, Hook flexes his emptied hand against his thigh. "If it's any consolation, I do believe you've missed your calling as a pirate."

"Oh, really?"

"Aye."

He could take a step towards to her, close whatever meager distance she's created between them. It would barely take a stride.

The tilt of his head morphs into a brisk shake that tears the train of his gaze from her, and towards the papers spanning his desk.

He doesn't.

*

The floor is hard beneath her back, somehow cool even as the cabin's air turns sweltering.

She should have discarded her caution, and downed several more shots of rum; with any luck, they would have guided her to sleep by now. The pirate's bed looms several feet away from her. Though gods know where she would have allowed herself to wind up – it's distressing how sentimental she's turned over a soft touch and a few pretty words of insight.

It was better when he was drunk; when his conversation consisted of poorly concealed innuendos and nautical metaphors. Him trying to  _read_ her, him succeeding – it's not what she signed on for.

Rolling against the ground for roughly the thirteenth time that night (she's braided a pattern of turning from back to side to her back once more), Emma's teeth butcher her lower lip. Wherever the Queen has her parents locked away, she'd bet Regina is doing a good deal more than simply disconcerting them or depriving them of fresh air.

Emma can't complain much in comparison – she can at least rely upon three meals a day, a pillow (albeit a fairly flat one), and a host without any apparent plan of seeing her walk the plank.

Shifting onto her side, she takes the opportunity to lift her eyes towards the pirate currently lying upon his bed. Not that his tongue couldn't drive her to it.

"Alright, lass." She jerks her gaze away when she realizes that he's looking back at her – and out of bed, following his gaze with his steps. "You're making my back throb just listening to you."

"What are you – let go of me!" But he doesn't, and she finds herself squirming in his arms, then falling towards his mattress. "I am not  _sleeping_  with you." His hands reach down to fasten her own against his bedding before she manages to illustrate her point with an attempt at bodily harm.

Hook's head falls back as if begging the ceiling for aid. "Bloody hell, love, you'd know if I meant to seduce you. At present, however, you might show a bit more gratitude – I can't remember ever sharing my bed with a woman for purely practical purposes before."

"Oh yeah, and what practical purposes would those be?"

"I told you." Her shoulders tense in a climb towards her neck when he releases her hands, and climbs upon the bed beside her. "You're driving me mad tossing and turning against the floor – and I thought princesses to be quiet sleepers."

She snorts. "Most people are when they have feather beds."

"Yes, well, I suppose mine will have to do."

In comparison to the fare she's slept upon lately, it's downright luxurious. Still… Emma stays upright, scanning the cabin.

Reclined once more, he casts a wary stare at her. "You might show a bit more restraint over testing my patience, love. You have set an interesting precedent for knocking another unconscious…"

The words drag at Emma's posture, pushing her into a slump. The cabin alone made for close enough quarters; his bed is going to be a complete nightmare.

Nevertheless, Emma folds herself on top of his bedding without another word. If she's going to sleep here, she'd prefer to drift off on her own terms (or retain the option to lie there awake and annoyed until dawn, just waiting for him to give her a reason to run).

If he cares that she hasn't followed him beneath his quilt (which he damn well shouldn't; it's sweltering and she has no need for his blanket or body heat), Hook's slight smirk is the only sign.

*

Emma had steeled herself for several hours' more exile from sleep upon lying down next to the pirate. She hadn't considered that Hook might have resigned himself to the same fate; yet, if the stiff cast of his body weren't enough to suggest it, his open eyes would be.

She's heard rumors about pirates before, of course – that they take women to bed often enough, but rarely welcome them to remain there for the sake of sleeping alone. He's clearly no stranger to the former. She wonders over the latter. (It begs the question of exactly how quickly Hook would have been done with her had she followed through on her act).

Emma ignores the way her already strained muscles plead with her to relax, and remains as compact and straight as possible. All the better to avoid accidentally rolling against him.

She barely notices when sleep submerges her eyelids under its weight.

*

It's not the point of a dagger that wakes her that morning, but a grumbled sigh against her shoulder.

Emma tenses, mind momentarily flailing for where exactly she is, and with whom the hell she could be sleeping. The ship and its captain come tumbling back a moment later with consciousness; she remains tense.

Turning slightly, she scrutinizes the man beside her. For all of his bed's narrow width, he still managed to leave her a bit of space – save for the invasion of his face against the curve of her shoulder.

He groans again. It takes her a moment to recognize the grunt as a name.

_"Milah."_

Emma's eyes widen. Whatever she dreamed that night, the memory of it scattered clean from her brain when she woke (thank God). Hook still seems to be in the thick of whatever images have gained purchase on his mind.

Well, at least it's not her name etching a pattern against his breath. Better he sigh for the woman whose name resides upon his forearm.

Slowly, Emma goes about easing herself away from his bed, edging one foot to the floor. Her toes trace it first, shivering at the loss of heat. Her sole follows. Yet just as she manages to wrangle her shoulder from the mattress and lower her other foot to the floorboards, Hook's hand darts out to snap around her arm. His fingers clench an ache into her skin that prompts Emma's teeth into a hard grip on her lower lip.

He opens his eyes, stares at her, and for a moment looks utterly lost (she knows because the exact same look has seeped across her own face several times among the identical trees and endless paths of the forest).

"I thought you wanted me to wake up early."

He blinks. His grip loosens with the motion, as though the backs of his eyelids hide a map. "I believe I said sunrise."

Emma shrugs away from his hand and onto her feet. "Yeah, well, I just couldn't wait to get started on another day of sitting around."

Hoisting himself onto his elbows, Hook flashes her a smirk. She pushes away any doubt her gut may nurture over its genuineness. "That well rested, love?" His eyebrows make quick work of spiking along with the question.

A scoff brushes her lips. "It's a bed. I've been sleeping on the ground for weeks. Of course I'm well rested."

Sleep slipping easily from his muscles, Hook swings his legs to the floor with nary a yawn. "You do have a peculiar way of showing gratitude."

"I'll show gratitude when you get me to shore."

He takes a step towards her, a shadow spreading his lips wide. "Is that so?" His breath combs over her temple.

A blush and a smirk war for claim over her face; she opts for the latter. "Yeah." Emma tilts her head up at him. "Get me to my destination, and I'll tell you where the Dark One is as soon as we hit land."

The next breath that reaches her head is short and gruff. "A worthy prize." The smirk levels from lips, his eyes fall from hers, and his breath abruptly leaves her skin, as Hook moves towards his dresser. Emma turns around, finally giving herself over to the blood rushing towards her cheeks.

She wonders if it's the memory of a burning pain separating his wrist from his hand that etches a jaggedness throughout his breath.

Her gaze locks against the wall. Not that it matters. It's not her job to puzzle him out.

*

"Land ahoy!"

It's as half-hearted a yell as Hook has ever heard.

The crew's disappointment, an entity almost as sharp as his hook and nearly as heavy as the Jolly's anchor, weighs upon his ship when they make port. Hook cants his head towards the distance. For as cold a rebuke as he'd give any man who dared complain, he can hardly blame them for their discontent.

Lifting his telescope (treacherous creature that it is) to his eye, Hook surveys the shore. And sees nothing. Nothing of substance, that is – rather a lot of fields and grass, with an utterly rural village to match them. A dream vacation for livestock, perhaps, but a bloody desolate home for a princess. Certainly not a destination of much excitement for a deck of men with no sodding idea why their captain has chosen to sail them there.

"Forgive me for asking, Captain, but why exactly did you offer your wenchpassage here? You can't have had any interest in visiting farmland _-_ " Smee's curiosity tapers into nerves with a flash of Hook's teeth and a sharp spike of his eyebrows.

"I have my reasons, Mr. Smee. You'd do well to remember that they're my own."

Flushing pink, Smee's fleshy throat bulges as though taking on the task of swallowing the rest of his sentence. "Of course, Captain."

His feet strike thunder down his cabin's staircase, recourse for each curious look he no doubt draws along with him. It's no matter. He'll as likely as not leave his crew behind soon enough; best to leave himself free and untethered to pursue the Crocodile.

The princess waiting for him in his cabin, however – she, he would almost rather keep aboard. In fact, if all she desired was safety from the Queen, he reckons he could ensure that quite easily. Few would think to look upon a pirate's ship for her. Procure a bit of hair dye (although it would be a bloody crime to strip her waves of their gold), and fewer still would take her for the lost princess.

But she wants more than mere safety, and he has plans that don't involve running the extra risk of a fugitive. Centuries' worth of plans, to be precise.

Centuries' worth of dreams about his Milah, and last night's was the first to spin her hair blonde and her eyes green.

A long breath coursing from his throat, Hook steps down into his quarters. Yes. It's for the best that the lass depart now.

*

Commotion seeps down from above deck, stirring Emma's posture straight and her chin towards the stairs. By the time Hook appears, she's on her feet and half-way through considering the risk of climbing them herself, his orders be damned.

"As promise, milady, your destination." The force of his steps – you'd think a giant was invading his cabin – eases when his feet reach the floor, lightening along with the corners of his mouth.

Her kneecaps beg to buckle even as her legs plead to move. To run. It's been such a long time since she's felt as though she was running  _towards_  something, even with the vague destination she's kept ever ready at the back of her mind; the black knights made sure of that.

Destinations don't mean a thing unless you make it through the night.

Still striding towards her, Hook's shoulders and mouth conspire in a shrug. "Granted it's a bloody rural life you've chosen for the time being – didn't peg you the farming sort, to be honest - but that's not the matter at hand, is it?"

"No," she says, even as her tongue rolls back the urge to ask what 'sort' he'd pegged her for exactly. "It's not."

His pace has surrendered all noise, turned more saunter than anything – yet Emma would swear that his every movement is still pounding against her ears. She steels herself against the urge to retreat, clenching her hands at her hips instead. By the time he stops before her, they could maybe fit one of his books in the space between them.

Her eyes flicker to his bookshelf.

One of the thinner ones.

Yet he doesn't make any attempt to move closer with his feet, hand, nor hook. He only raises an eyebrow at her. "You got what you bargained for. I believe it's time you return the favor."

Emma's scrutiny darts from his bookshelf to his window, fixing itself upon the glass, the ocean beyond it, and finally the sight of land. She takes her time shifting her eyes back to Hook (although they'd rather dart, although they're just as eager as her legs to find shore). "And how do I know you've taken me to the right place?"

"Lots of farmland. Nothing for miles and miles. Utterly barren of excitement. Does that sound like the place?"

A beat later than it should have, her chin lowers into a nod. Slowly, Emma's hands loosen their grip against the ache they've carved into her hipbones. It's near enough to what she's heard described to her, at least.

She wants to run.

She wants to stay firmly rooted to the familiarity of the floor.

Emma settles for breaking eye contact. "I take it you're looking for your reward then." Turning around to face his table, she grabs for a piece of paper and a quill.

She feels him close behind her, even before his hook pins the spare piece of parchment against the tabletop. "Unless your parents have enclosed the Dark One away in a labyrinth, I believe memory alone will serve well enough."

The quill drops from her fingers, spilling a trail of ink against the white square.

"Right. I…" Emma's throat closes around the words, her eyes following the quill's descent.

"Yes?" Hook's breath stains her earlobe. "It's a tad late for second thoughts, love."

A deep inhale swells her stomach against the table's edge. "You could turn me over to the Queen once I give you what you need."

His hand moves to rest beside her. "I may be a pirate, but I also consider myself a man of my word. Claiming the price on your head now – well that would just be bad form."

A deep exhale follows. She  _believes_ him. Cynical Princess Emma, ever so proud of avoiding her parents' naivety, always so wary of idealism, and she believes him. Her face scrunches into a cringe, eyes flickering shut, brow creasing, and lips pressing tight together. In a rush, she forces them apart. "The mines."

"Sorry?"

Gradually, she turns around to face him – and realizes the extent of their proximity. His chest heaves against hers, his arms locking her in place. When she raises her chin, its stride nearly strikes a blow against his neck. "They converted the Dwarves' mine to hold him – something about the magic or the energy or something. I never paid much attention to the story. But if you can find the mines, you'll find him."

The words seem to strip all recognition of her presence from his face. His eyes lock behind her shoulder, somehow wide and sharp all at once, as his mouth slackens. "Oh, I can find them." She's grateful that he doesn't add a nod to the words, as his chin  _would_ doubtlessly prod her face with the motion. Any motion, really. Warmth rising towards her cheeks, Emma begins the effort of edging away from him, sliding back against the table and moving to pull to the right. Or the left. She's not picky, as long as she manages to escape the feeling of his breath quickening against her cheeks.

Her eyes dart down to his arms. This would be a hell of a lot easier without them still tense on either side of her.

"Well, uh, thank you then." All it takes is a nudge for him to look down at his arms as though the limbs have grown foreign to him. Without hesitation, he pulls both back to his sides. She wrangles herself barely a foot away from him before halting, her own muscles suddenly fastening.

Maybe she's gotten used to the claustrophobia of his quarters. Maybe her legs are lazy from days of rest. Emma can hardly tell if she wants to move, only that she can't figure out how.

"And to you, princess." She watches as he snaps back into himself, eyes glinting and tongue moving once more. "I suppose gratitude is in order." As if to make up for the seconds he lost in thought, his eyebrows arch back to life against his forehead.

"Kind of defeats the purpose of a deal."

"So that's all this was? A mutual exchange of goods and services."

Emma's lips curve. "Yeah. That's what a deal is."

Turning his face to the ground to hide a grin, Hook bites his lip and raises his eyes towards her. "Interesting tidbit about deals - some think it good luck to seal them with a kiss."

"I'm pretty sure that's supposed to happen before both sides fulfill their ends of the bargain."

He lifts his face once more, not bothering to hide the smirk playing on his features. "And you always follow the dictates of tradition, I'm sure."

"Please." Emma doesn't think to break eye contact, even as she shakes her head. "You couldn't handle it."

Nor do his eyes move from hers. "Perhaps you're the one who couldn't handle it."

A laugh rises and falls down Emma's throat (and still, she doesn't look away).

It's easier than it should be. Her feet freeze as soon as she takes one look towards the stairs, and her legs have gone half-steel and half-liquid, but it's  _easy_ to sway the step separating them. It's easy to curl her fingers around the collar of his jacket, and it's easy to dive her mouth against his.

And why the hell shouldn't it be. It's not as though she'll ever see him again.

His lips freeze against hers at first, still as stones, as if he'd never meant for his teasing to actually work. That lasts all of a moment, and then his mouth is demanding against hers, his hand clenching among her tangled blonde waves.

Even without the taste of rum cloying at her senses, it's familiar - the feel of him against her, of his hair between her fingers, of their lips sculpting to one another's.

Hook crushes his free arm against her back, leaving her writhing against him without flicker of space left to call her own.

Familiarity fades. Heaving a deep breath against his mouth, Emma rests her forehead against his and goes still _._ It's that stillness which finally gives her legs the will to back away.

He's dazed again; this time his eyes don't fix upon the distance but on her face. "That was-"

"Good luck." Breathless, her voice gropes for air. "For the Dark One." Emma's lips just manage to pull into a smirk. "You'll need it."

His eyes continue to follow her towards the cabin stairs, even as his feet remain motionless. "Aye." She swallows a relieved sigh when a slow nod claims his head. "And you as well, Princess."

Lips tightening into one last smile, Emma turns towards the steps, and gives herself over to the impulse she's fought since first stepping into his quarters. The one that had abandoned her scarcely a moment prior.

She runs.


End file.
